Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
My frown is heavy. “Because the town thinks he’s with me?” Has she wanted to be with Jake? Have I prevented my friend from having her Mystic Pizza romance?
“No, because I don’t do relationships. I can barely take care of myself right now, Phebs.” She takes strange breaths. “I feel like I’m losing…time. A-and honestly, the only thing that truly matters is figuring out where we came from and why they want us to leave this town. B-because what if it’s really not safe to stay?”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes are flooded with fear. “I have to tell you something. About the Wolfe family.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Phoebe
We haven’t left the grocery store parking lot. Rain pelts our Honda, and we shelter in the backseat. Lounging longways, we face each other and prop ourselves up against the doors. Plastic bags of groceries hide our feet as we dig into them.
Hailey hands me a yellow marshmallow chick, then tears one in half for herself. “Most details about the Wolfes have been buried in old records at the Historical Society. Since Stella Fitzpatrick is the president, it’s been even harder to gain entry. I asked for permission to go through the archives, and she said no.”
Ugh, Stella. Claudia’s snooty best friend would be an annoying obstacle. “She can shove that no up her ass.”
Hailey smiles a little. “I did wish you were there to tell her off.”
“What was her reasoning for shutting you out?”
“She said I need special access, and to get that, I need to become certified in archival research. Which she said takes years. It seemed like bullshit. She doesn’t really like me or you. So Carter asked her for approval, and she denied him, too. I think she knew he was with me. We’ve been seen at the library together and mornings at Seaside Griddle on our laptops.”
I think about alternatives. Sneaking into the Historical Society at night and stealing books—it isn’t a safe or even realistic option. There are likely cameras galore, and the last thing we need is the sheriff taking special interest in us.
“What about Jake?” I ask. “Stella loves Jake, and his lineage is probably all over that place anyway. He could tell her he’s interested in his ancestry, like if any relatives fought in the American Revolution.”
“I had him help me next.”
My smile emerges. I’m proud of myself for coming up with an idea worthy enough to already be executed by my brilliant best friend.
Hailey picks apart her chick into tiny chunks. “Jake sweet-talked her into letting him through, but then, he pushed his luck and brought me up. To try to get me in there with him.”
I stiffen. “She revoked his access?”
“Yeah.” She eats a tiny piece and licks yellow sugar off her thumb. “A week later, I had Oliver try. He got Stella to let him in.”
My hopes rise.
“But she only gave him ten minutes. No photographs allowed, since it’d damage the paper, but he took a couple pics without flash. It was hard for him to figure out what to pull. I told him to look for the newspapers, but I only had a rough estimate about dates. He didn’t have that…that long.”
I swallow the marshmallow, and it goes down in a thick lump. Because Hailey suddenly goes sheet white. Swiftly, before I can even blink, she wrenches open the left-side door behind her and leans out into the thunderstorm. Vomiting on the cement.
“Hails!” I climb to my knees on the seat, groceries tumbling to the floor mats, and I reach out, gathering her platinum-blonde hair before it gets drenched.
With the door open, the wind roars, blowing rain into the Honda. She gags while I rub her back. We’re both getting wet, but I could be partially drowned right now and it wouldn’t steal my concern from her.
“It’s okay, Hails. You’re okay.”
After a long minute, she spits, then slides back onto the seat, and I reach out to shut the door for her. She groans while I squeeze the water out of her hair.
“Here, there’s a Snapple somewhere…” I search the grocery bags and hand her a peach tea.
She twists off the cap slowly, like her energy has been depleted. Her insomnia is one thing, but now she’s getting physically ill. My worry meter just smashed through the roof.
“You don’t look so hot,” I tell her. She’s still as pale as can be.
“I think I might be coming down with something.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and recaps the Snapple.
I release her hair, now just damp and not sopping wet. “Why don’t you go see a doctor?”
She ties her hair back with a black scrunchie, securing it in a low pony. “That involves having paperwork under Hailey Thornhall and submitting forms about familial history. Whatever I fill out, it’s permanent, and it involves more than just me.”